


down by the riverbed

by izadreamer



Category: AR∀GO ロンドン市警特殊犯罪捜査官 | Arago, Bleach
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Kid!Ichigo, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Not Spoiler-free, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Platonic Life Partners, Supernatural Elements, Team as Family, in which Arago accidentally becomes the Cool Adult and Ichigo gets actual help
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-01-26 00:36:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12544864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izadreamer/pseuds/izadreamer
Summary: An immortal man steps into Karakura, and Ichigo’s life may never be the same again. Soul Society adjusts accordingly.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mynameisyarra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mynameisyarra/gifts).



 

There’s a kid crying on the riverbank.

Down the road, Arago shoves his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels, considering. The sky is crystal clear blue above him, the waters of the river shining and clean. There are no other kids around, but no adults, either, and Arago rolls this knowledge around his mind like he would candy on his tongue. Something’s off, even if he doesn’t know what, but not so much in a supernatural way; just a very human way.

He hasn’t been in Karakura long, merely a week at best, but just because Arago’s looking for the supernatural doesn’t make him blind to reality, either. The first day he arrived, walking down this path towards his hotel, there’d been police tape all around the bank of the river. Old police tape, mind, the yellow worn thin and plastic ripped from a few days exposed to the elements, and by the next day it’d been gone, the incident cleaned up and put behind them.

Officially, that is. The heavy-lidded eyes of the parents and the way they all seem to be steering their children away from the river says whatever happened, it’s still fresh and ripe in their minds. Something tragic, more likely than not—this Arago knows not just from the grief in the stranger’s eyes but also from the air itself. Death always leaves its mark. He’s witnessed enough of it to know, by now, and there’s something most definitely wrong with that river.

So the kid, crying near the edge, no guardian in sight? That sets off alarms.

Arago waits a bit longer, just in case a frantic parent comes barreling around the corner—he’s had his fair share of weird encounters, and he doesn’t want to be on the receiving end of another one. When no such adult authority appears, Arago sighs.

It’s not like there’s much debate about it, really. Arago’s always had a soft spot for kids, and he’s never been the type of person to walk by when anyone’s crying, let alone a child. Besides—there’s something just not right about that river. It’s almost supernatural—not strong enough to catch his attention, but enough to make him wary. Leaving a kid alone on a riverbed that smells like death… No. Arago has never been that type of person, and he’s not about to start now.

He steps hard on the concrete, making his footfalls heavier so the kid can at least have some warning that he’s there. It's weird, and a bit uncomfortable—when Arago traveled the land of the Fair Folk, he’d had to watch his tongue and step lightly just to survive. Being able to act freely again is one of the main perks of being back here, but he still keeps his steps light out of habit.

He’s not entirely sure if the kid’s heard him until he stops nearby, figuring out what to say. The kid’s shoulders go up by his ears, his back stiffening, his sobs starting to muffle. Okay, so, the kid heard him—and now, on the defensive. Kids are trusting little tykes, so this… Isn’t exactly a welcoming sign.

The suspicious lack of adults seems much more ominous now. Arago thinks of Joe with a pang he just barely pushes past and crouches down on his knees so he won’t loom over the kid.

“Hey,” he says, making his voice softer than usual. “Hey, kid. You okay?”

A ragged breath and a stiff shrug is the kid’s hesitant response. No words.

Arago waits. The kid doesn’t say anything else.

“…You need any help?”

Another ragged breath—damn, the kid must have been stifling his sobs like crazy if his voice is this wrecked from the strain—and a small, hoarse voice finally answers. “No.”

“Right,” Arago says, and leans back, considering. “Look, uh… kid, you don’t look so good right now. Is there— seriously, are you okay?”

Some secret tension seems to break, and suddenly the kid’s on his feet, round face shiny with tears and eyes wide and furious. His hair sticks up on his head like a short orange pom-pom, and it’d be adorable if it wasn’t so heartbreaking.

“I’m fine!” The kid shouts, like he’s trying to convince not just Arago but also himself. “I’m fi-i-ine! Go away!”

Arago surveys him. It’s a shot in the dark, but… The river. The quiet fear on all the adult’s faces, the way they’ve been clutching their kids close. The police tape. And, most damning of all—the kid, here alone, no mother or father here to comfort him.

Arago knows the signs like the back of his hand. He lived them, after all… and while he was never much of a detective, he’d never been completely hopeless at it either.

“They were the best, weren’t they?” he asks, gently. The kid’s face falls into furious confusion. Arago looks away, thinking of Joe and Ewan and the parents he can barely remember. “The person you lost. They were the best.”

The kid’s face just— falls. Crumbles like wet tissue paper, eyes scrunching up and lips trembling before he remembers himself, teeth clamping hard on his lip, eyes blinking furiously past the tears.

“Sorry,” Arago says. He feels a bit ill. “I— sorry. I didn’t mean… it’s just, I’ve also—” The words stick in his throat, and he nearly chokes on them. No, no. He can’t. Even years later, those wounds are too raw to speak aloud.

He draws in a shaking breath and closes his eyes, trying to bring himself back under control. When he opens them again, he fixes his eyes on the boy, willing him to understand what Arago is saying.

“I know,” Arago says finally, halting and painful, “how it looks to lose someone. That’s all. I— I’m sorry.”

The boy stares at him, chest heaving with the effort of choking back his sobs. His hand rises and swipes hard at his face once, then twice, as if to scrub the evidence of his weakness away, then falls limply to his side. His red-rimmed eyes, a dark hazel, are shrewd and suspicious. He licks his lips and looks away then back again, and doesn’t even seem to notice when a few tears break free to roll down his ruddy cheeks.

“Who was it?” the boy asks in his soft, ruined voice. His words are pointed and blunt in a way only children can manage, unknowing of just how devastating that question can be. “Who’d you lose?”

Arago looks back to the river, fighting the instinctive impulse that had risen at those words, the painful memories lurking beneath the surface of his mind, just waiting to strike. He stares at the afternoon sun hanging low in the sky until the sheer brightness of it makes his eyes water from something other than old pain.

“Lots of people,” he says finally. Knows, even as he says it, that it's not enough.

He doesn’t really want to say it, doesn’t want to bare their names in the air for the world to know. It's been years, and for all his hope of retrieving Ewan and Seth, there have been no signs. No answers.

He makes the mistake of looking back. The kid is small— shoulders hunched and expression worn in a way only grieving children can achieve, like something’s gone and plucked his heart from his chest. Quiet and guilty and grieving. He looks— he looks like Ewan.

He looks like Arago did, all those years ago, the first time Ewan died.

“My brother,” Arago says, almost without meaning. “And— my father.” God, Joe. Sometimes Arago can hardly believe he’ll never see the man again. Joe had always been— almost invincible in Arago’s eyes. Accepting and unyielding. Every reminder of his death is like a knife to the heart.

He doesn’t say Seth’s name. He’ll save Seth. He will. He hasn’t given up hope just yet, and if he’s lucky, maybe he can save Ewan too.

The two names Arago _does_ give are enough to shake the kid. He’s staring at Arago like he’s just now noticed him—maybe he hadn’t really believed Arago had meant what he’d said after all. Arago wonders what the kid saw on his face to convince him now.

The kid realizes he’s staring almost at the same time Arago does, and looks away quickly, but some of the weird tension in his shoulders has eased away. “…Oh. Sorry.”

Arago sighs and leans back. “Yeah. Me too.”

The kid sniffs, hard. Arago does him a favor and doesn’t look over. “I lost my mom,” the kid reveals, in a small, shaking voice like he’s sharing a shameful secret.

Arago’s eyelids flutter closed, pained. This isn’t the conversation he thought he’d be having today. “I’m sorry. I— I know— how hard that can be. ”

The kid’s breathing gets a bit heavier, more ragged. “There was the river,” he says, near babbling, like with that one confession the words just won’t stop. “And— I thought I saw a woman, I thought I saw her go into the river, and I went after, but it wasn’t a woman it was this monst—thing, and, and, my mom—“

The kid breaks off. Arago sits up, heart pounding. Monster, the kid had almost said, and that makes some part of Arago perk up— but there’s something else too, something far more important, so Arago takes that little tidbit and stores it away to explore for later.

“Hey,” he says. “Hey, kid, it’s okay. You don’t—”

“My mum’s dead,” says the kid, and then he cuts himself off but Arago—Arago knows this, knows that thinking, knows that dull, lifeless look. He knows it because he saw it in the mirror countless times, after Ewan, after Patchman, after losing Joe.

“It’s not your fault,” Arago says, a bit helplessly, because he doesn’t know the kid but he knows that much, at least. “It wasn’t your fault, kid. Whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t you.”

The kid’s head falls down to his chest. He nods.

Arago knows that the kid doesn’t believe him. How could he? Arago is a stranger, a nameless voice of concern. This boy does not know him, and in truth, there is very little Arago can say that will have any effect.

And yet. For all that Arago is a stranger, the kid is still here, curled up on the riverbank, spilling his secrets into the open air. To a stranger, no less, and Arago—

When he lost his parents, when he lost Ewan— Arago had not been like that. He’d held his hurt close until Rio had come and ripped it out into the open, all the tears and messy emotions that’d been building up like a bomb in his chest. But even though Arago can remember that, can remember how jealously he had guarded his grief, he also remembers how difficult it was. How the tears and furious words and confession would build up behind his throat like water behind a dam, ready to overflow at the first sign of genuine concern, at the first offer of an open ear.

Arago had bitten back the words anyway. This kid hasn’t.

There’s hope in that. And Arago seizes it with all he has, because this kid—this kid’s been cut on the edge of the world, but some part of him is still trusting. Still seeking the words he so desperately wants to hear, the words Arago himself was deaf to, so long ago.

Arago is not very good with words. But he knows grief—almost too well, perhaps—and so he will try.

“It’s not,” he says again, and when the kid doesn’t look up says it a third time, for emphasis. “It’s not. She— moms are like that. Parents are like that.” The vague faces of his family before they’d been lost in the flames. Joe, wry smile on his face even as he faced death with open arms. “They— they do these things, and—and you and I, kid, we couldn’t have stopped them. Because she loved you, kid, and this was her choice, and I promise you, she wouldn’t have blamed you.”

The kid’s head snaps up, eyes burning. He opens his mouth, and Arago, Arago can’t listen to this—can’t stand this conversation, this kid who’s pulling all of Arago’s wounds out into the open—but the kid deserves to hear this, too, deserves to know.

No one should have to live with undeserved guilt.

“My dad—he, he never blamed me. He did it for me, but he did it—he did it for him, too, because if it had been me he wouldn’t have been able to live with it. So—it was his choice. In the end. It wasn’t my fault. And—and it’s not yours either, kid, okay?”

Arago doesn’t know if he even believes those words himself. It's a mantra he’s heard so often, from Rio, from Coco, even from himself—that he knows it by heart. His mind accepts it. His heart, not so much.

“It’s not your fault,” Arago says, a bit helplessly, and the kid’s face cracks open like dam breaking—face screwing up, eyes watering, lips trembling—and when the kid goes down on his knees, curled up and crying, Arago knows he’s gotten through.

-

He doesn’t hug the kid, because he doesn’t know him, and physical affection is still a weird thing to Arago, for all that Rio claims he’s basically touch-starved. Instead, he kneels by where the kid is curled up in a small ball of tears, and rubs his back—lightly, at first, in case he freaks the kid out, and then more firmly when the kid leans into it.

When the kid’s tears finally stop, he looks washed out and weary, brown eyes red and puffy, still sniffling hard. He looks exhausted. Arago feels much the same. He hates picking at old wounds, but it's worth it, to see some of that horrible guilt leave the kid’s eyes. The kid needed this. Desperately, desperately needed this.

It makes Arago wonder what would have happened to him, if Arago had not come here this day.

Regardless, what’s done is done, and Arago sits back on his heels, looking up at the sky. It’s late afternoon—almost dusk—so the kid will probably have to be ushered home soon, but Arago doesn’t want to leave the kid alone just yet, not after a conversation like that. It feels too much like running away.

He sighs heavily and rocks up to his feet, stretching out his arms. The kid looks up at the movement, quick and startled. There’s a weird look on his face.

Arago looks back at the sky, mentally counting the change in his pockets and his funds for the week. He can… probably squeak it. Maybe.

Rio will understand. Hell, she might even send him extra cash because of it. Weird thought, but totally a Rio thing to do.

“Hey, kid. Want some ice cream? It’s on me.”

The kid looks at him. He’s doing something weird with his face—like, the weird look is gone, but what ever’s replaced it is equally confusing. Arago is so bad at this.

“It’ll make you feel better,” Arago tries. “Like, certifiably, I have tried this. Or, um, if you like chocolate?” Wait. Waaaaaaait. “Or, no, wait. I’m— this is not a kidnapping scam. I— agh, you know what? Uh, maybe you should just head back. Yeah.”

The weird look intensifies. The kid squints. Then his shoulders fall, and he doesn’t smile, but there’s a lack of tension on his face that suggests he’s close to it. “I like ice cream,” says the kid, and starts walking. Presumably to the ice cream place. With a stranger.

Arago gets a sneaking suspicion on those earlier weird looks. Not fear and wariness over a stranger like he thought then—disappoint that Arago might go? Relief at him choosing not to?

Did stranger danger not factor in at all? Even after Arago mentioned it? Like, sure, Arago would sooner stab himself with Brionac than hurt anyone, but the kid sure as hell doesn’t know that. And he’s not Arago, who has the power to fight should his trust be betrayed. He’s just—a kid. A tiny, redhead slip of a thing who is, apparently, okay with a stranger buying him ice cream.

God, kids are weird.

Arago goes anyway. He does owe the kid an ice cream.

-

The kid gets vanilla ice cream, like a heathen. Arago gets chocolate, like a true believer, and even manages not to wince at the miniscule amount of money left in his wallet. Cheap hotel tonight. For sure.

“Is it any good?”

“Yes.” The kid looks down, takes a bite—a bite!—out of the cone. It must be freezing, and the kid’s face does this weird little twitch, but he doesn’t say anything. Is he trying to act cool? Is he trying to impress Arago? The whole thing is surreal, and Arago kind of wants to laugh. He’s exhausted though, so maybe that’s just the hysteria talking. “It’s good. Thank you, um… sir.”

Now that the kid’s not crying his eyes out and picking at old wounds, Arago can now fully appreciate how hilarious and also somewhat adorable this is. Kids. What the fuck. It’s like being around Coco, only smaller, and with fewer sparkles.

“Arago,” he returns, and licks his ice cream to show the kid, by way of example, how to properly eat his dessert. “My name’s Arago.”

“Arago,” the kid repeats. He looks up, brown eyes bright in his face. His tears have dried, by now, his face returned to its normal pallor. You almost couldn’t tell he’d been crying. Dangerous, that. “‘M Ichigo.”

Arago grins down at him, ruffles his hair on impulse. “Ichigo? Cool. Nice to properly meet you, kid.”

A small smile flickers at the edge of the kid’s mouth, crooked but pleased. “Nice to meet you.”

Arago takes another lick of his ice cream and looks at the sky. The sun is starting to set. Whoever’s taking care of the kid will probably be worried.

“Getting real late,” Arago says. “You should probably get home, kid.”

The kid’s face falls, and Arago has a single second to think— _Oh shit oh shit_ **_what if he doesn’t have a home anymore_ ** _—_ before the kid says, “Oh. You’re leaving?”

This time, Arago’s spirits fall for a different reason. “That’s… Well…”

He wishes he could say otherwise—the kid’s finally smiling, and it’d be a shame if it died so soon, because Arago has a sneaking suspicious that the kid hasn’t smiled for a while now. But the truth is, Arago is leaving. He came to Karakura for a reason, and no matter how sympathetic he feels, it wasn’t to cheer up a lonely kid. He came to find the supernatural, and so far there’s been nothing concrete.

There’s no reason to stay.

He’s about to explain, in the simplest terms he can—when a flash of black catches the corner of his eyes.

Arago whips around. Nothing. But he trusts his eyes, and he knows— someone was there. He can feel it.

Years of walking the land of the Fair Folk has given Arago an awareness of the supernatural that’s near unmatched. Only Rio can challenge him, and that’s only when she dons the wolf pelt. Coco can track, and Oz is always on top of supernatural gossip… but in terms of pure, instinctual awareness? That’s all Arago.

So he knows. He knows that someone was there, less because of sight and more because of Sight. He can practically taste the lingering power in the air, the weighty regard of a powerful being. His skin crawls, and Bionic seems to hum beneath his skin, liquid fire in his veins. It's the most positive magical reaction he’s gotten in ages— since he emerged from the land of the Fair Folk, even, and that was years ago.

“…Arago?”

“Huh?” He starts, turning back to the kid. “Oh, it's nothing… I just thought…”

He sweeps the area one last time, but there’s nothing out of place—the setting sun, the ice cream vendor behind him, the empty rooftops, the families scattered around the street, the black cat sauntering from the alley…

“It’s nothing,” Arago says, but his heart beats loud in his ears, and he knows, he knows it's not. Power has a distinctive taste, and after years of chasing down leads, Arago’s gotten damn good at finding it.

Jackpot.

He feels breathless. This is—this is good. Hell, this is the best lead he’s had since he began this quest. After a week of quiet, he’d thought Karakura was like every other place— another dud, the magic withered or long-since died. This one glimpse, faint though it was, has turned every plan on its head. Forget the faint taint of the river. Forget that weird glamour on the shop down the road. This is what Arago has been searching for. The power of eons. The power of the afterlife.

The power to awaken even the dead.

Just like, all his plans have changed. Arago grins down at the kid—Ichigo, right, he’ll have to remember that— and ruffles his hair again. “Nah, kid,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Ichigo blinks, eyes narrowing with faint suspicion, as if he suspects Arago of humoring him. “You’re not?”

“Just finding a hotel— you’ll see me again, probably. Hopefully under better circumstances.”

Ichigo’s smile returns full-force. It’s good. It’s a good thing. The kid’s face was made for smiling, and it's a damn shame the world’s already tried to knock it off his face. “You’re staying here?”

“In Karakura? Yeah, for a bit.”

Ichigo’s eyes glitter. “Awesome,” says the kid, and Arago grins back, pathetically grateful for the chance to keep that smile going. If he'd made the kid cry after all that, it would've been a shitty ending to a shitty day. It's nice, to see things are looking up.

“…Seriously, though. You should get going, yeah? Bad idea for a kid your age to stay out at dark.”

Ichigo rolls his eyes. “I know,” he says, far too patiently to actually mean it. Arago gets the distinct sense he’s being humored. It's a really weird feeling. “I’m always careful.”

If the kid is anything like Arago was, that’s a bold-face lie. “Sure.”

That gets another grin out of the kid. Arago is on a roll. Maybe in a better life, he could have been a babysitter instead of a cop. What a weird thought.

The kid skips back a few steps, still hesitant, then looks up. “Thanks. For today. For what you said. It—” For a moment his young voice stutters, catching on the words. “It meant a lot.”

Then, before Arago can recover from _that_ gut-punch, the kid turns neatly on his heel and barrels down the street. Gone in a matter of minutes.

Arago watches until the kid disappears from view, presumably into his house. 

He’s not in Karakura to help a kid deal with his grief, however responsible Arago feels. But… the flash of black cloth and power, there and gone again in mere moments. The legends of monsters and black butterflies, warriors appear and reappearing. The whispers in the magical community, of a door between life and death…

Arago only ever planned to be here a few days, but this sort of lead—it’ll take time. If he’s learned anything from being in the force, it's that. Which means, Arago’s stay just got extended from a few days into a few weeks. Even months, depending on how elusive the magical community here is. He’s in for the long haul.

Arago can help the kid out too, while he’s out of it. He can do that. It’s not too hard.

He blows out another breath— less annoyance, more hardening of resolve—and turns in the opposite direction, heading towards the hotels. His hand sneaks into his pocket, and he types the number without looking, his mind still on the kid, on the black cloth, of grief and loss and how to deal with it.

He’s so unprepared for this. He never asked to take care of a kid. He doesn’t know _how_. But he wants to. Just like how Joe helped him, years ago, now it's Arago’s turn. Paying the kindness forward.

Three rings, and then a click. Just as usual.

_“Arago, hey. You don’t usually call this early.”_

“Yeah, sorry. It's evening over here. I forgot the time difference... Did I wake you?”

 _“No, no. I’m making breakfast now, actually. Coco got an early shift.”_ A pause. _“…You didn’t use up all the money already, did you? Everything pan out okay?”_

“Hey!” he returns. “Yeah, no, everything’s cool. Weird day, but… Good. I’ll be staying here for a bit, I think.”

_“You will? That’s… You think—this is it? Wait—what do you mean by weird day! What’s happened?”_

Arago grins.

“Honestly, Rio,” he says, leaning back his head to look at the darkening sky, “I don’t even know where to start.”

 

  



	2. Chapter 2

He’s going to be late.

Ichigo shuffles his feet impatiently and steals another glance at the clock. Karate practice ended three minutes ago, but Ichigo's teacher had been gearing up for a lecture on responsibility and proper behavior for the whole lesson, and now, in the last few minutes of class, has decided to let loose. Ichigo doesn’t mind the man—he’s a good teacher, if a bit lackluster and long-winded—but he’s bored, and tired, and now he’s going to be late. It’s hard to stay still and listen, especially when Ichigo knows full well the students who need the lecture aren’t even paying attention, and the ones who  _ are  _ paying attention didn’t need it in the first place. It’s a waste of time, is what it is, and Ichigo stares at the clock just above his teacher’s head with growing anxiety as the minute hand inches on. 

_ Five  _ minutes late now. God damn it.

Ichigo peels his eyes away from the wall and looks at Tatsuki instead, standing near the front of the line, catching her eyes. She meets his gaze squarely and juts her chin in a clear message of  _ Listen to the teacher, dimwit _ , but Ichigo knows she’s bored too. He makes a face back, and is gratified to see her fight a grin. Hah. Got her.

Sadly for Ichigo’s boredom, Tatsuki turns her face away after that, her mouth screwed up in an effort to keep from yawning, eyes back on the teacher. Distraction gone, Ichigo stares at the clock again. Six minutes late. God, he’s so bored.

“…Keep this in mind for the rest of your training, you hear? Good. Alright now, I can tell I’m losing you—have a good afternoon, and I’ll see you all soon.”

Ichigo bites back a grin, straightening up for the bow-out, and dashing for his backpack the moment his teacher utters the dismissal. If he hurries, he can maybe make it on time. Probably. Hopefully.

“Hey, Ichi.”

“Ichi- _ go,”  _ he snaps back, without looking. He shoves his uniform in his bag and slips on a plain black tee so quickly he almost catches his head in the fabric. “Whaddya want, Tatsuki?”

Tatsuki shrugs casually, but Ichigo knows her well by now, after three years of friendship,  and there’s no mistaking the clear look of curiosity on her face. “Where you headed?”

“Out,” Ichigo says shortly. “It’s not any of your business!”

“Just wondering,” Tatsuki says. “I mean, if it's not too much a hurry… we could have a rematch.”

“Sensei would yell at us,” Ichigo counters, though that's not really why he’s against it. He can’t leave it there through—a grin tugs at his mouth at the memory. “Why? Aren’t you afraid I’m gonna win?”

“You didn’t win  _ earlier _ ,” Tatsuki snaps back, and its Ichigo who shrugs now, lacing up his shoes deftly. No, but he’d gotten close, and they both know it. Tatsuki can kick his ass no problem, but for just one moment, when they were sparring, Ichigo had kicked her shoulder and seen her stumble. If he’d been faster, quicker, better at balance—a few more strikes, and it would have been him crowned victor. He’s getting better.

“Soon,” he promises Tatsuki. “I will win soon.”

“Not today,” she returns, but her eyes are bright with grudging acknowledgment. It makes Ichigo grin again, and he stands, feeling cheerful enough to actually respond.

“I have a teacher,” he confesses, almost in a whisper. It’s a secret— _ his  _ secret—but this is Tatsuki, who kicks his ass six times a week and helps him learn how to fight. Tatsuki who pushes him around but never let anyone else even try. Even after… well,  _ after,  _ she’s still his closest friend, even they’re more distant nowadays. If there’s anyone he wants to tell, it’s her.

Tatsuki’s eyes shoot wide open, way wide, but they narrow right after. “A teacher.”

“Yeah.” Ichigo slings his bag over his shoulder and grins at her, feeling giddy. He hasn’t told anyone about Arago yet--his dad has enough worries, and besides, Arago is  _ his  _ teacher--and the chance to brag is too good to pass up. “He’s teaching me awesome moves! That’s why.”

Tatsuki doesn’t look nearly as excited by this news as Ichigo is. Her eyes are suspicious, her mouth drawn into a tight and angry frown. “But— wait, since  _ when? _ You didn’t have a teacher before.”

“Since six months ago,” Ichigo returns cheerfully, and deliberately shies away from the memory of what also happened six months ago. His smile falters, but doesn’t fade.

If anything, this information only makes Tatsuki more upset. She’s almost scowling now, and her words are quick and harsh. “Wait— do you mean— ”

“Sorry,” Ichigo says. “I’ll tell you more tomorrow, okay? But you have to keep this a secret. I gotta go.”

Tatsuki’s eyes narrow, and for a second Ichigo thinks she’s going to fight him on this, but after a second of thoughtful silence, Tatsuki finally pulls back with a sigh. “ _ Fine.  _ But I get to ask any question, and you gotta answer.”

“Yeah, yeah.” 

“And I want to meet this secret teacher of yours.”

“Yeah, sure,” Ichigo starts to say, but then the words register and he whips back around again. “What, what?”

“I said— ”

“I heard you,” Ichigo says. He’s not smiling anymore. He has the sudden sense that this conversation was a very bad idea. “You’re not meeting him.”

Tatsuki doesn’t even falter. “Oh yes, I am. What, afraid he might teach me too?”

“No,” Ichigo says forcibly, pushing past a sudden spike of uncertainty, because what if Arago actually— “You’re not meeting him.” A pause, and then he adds, pointedly, “Even if you ask, he won’t teach you anyway.”

Tatsuki rolls her eyes at him, and pulls her backpack up high on one bony shoulder. “Whatever. Bye, Ichigo.”

Ichigo grits his teeth and then forcibly takes a calming breath. “Bye, Tatsuki.” Ichigo hefts up his own bag and makes for the door, with one last glance at the clock before he goes.

…Ten minutes late. God  _ damn it. _

-

The kid is distracted. 

Of course, the kid is usually distracted—as eager as Ichigo is to learn how to fight, he’s still an eleven-year-old kid, and eleven-year-olds have a shared ingrained habit of being  _ uncontrollably bouncy— _ but this time is a bit more obvious than usual. The kid keeps missing strikes that only two days ago he’d made with ease, and he’s slipped back into some beginner mistakes that he still hasn’t trained himself out of yet to become a habit. Nothing big, but still distracting.

Arago slides back a few feet, absent-mindedly blocking a sloppy punch with his forearm. The kid’s eyes are narrow with focus, his small pudgy face red with exhaustion and frustration. He’s trying, but he’s not all here, his mind elsewhere.

Arago’s lips purse to hold back a frown, and he bats a kick from the air before the kid can even get close enough to hit. The kid lands awkwardly, nearly stumbling— he’d started wrong, or maybe just turned weird— either way, it’s a bit worrisome that a kick as easy as a roundhouse is giving the kid trouble. 

Arago sighs, exhaling heavily. If it’s this bad… well. Time for a heart to heart, apparently.

He’s not feeling very optimistic about this. God, who thought it was a good idea for Arago to be in charge for a kid’s well-being? Who thought that was a good idea?

Oh right, he did. Ahh, the things optimism dragged him into.

Arago catches the tiny fist aimed somewhere near his sternum and holds it instead of letting go. Ichigo tugs once in an attempt to recoil, realizes that Arago has slid out of a fighting stance and is now holding him still, and drops his remaining fist. His small face screws up in a now habitual scowl, an expression he’s been wearing more and more in an effort to be more adult, which has the double benefit of being absolutely ridiculous. “What? Why’d you stop?”

Arago tugs at the wrist lightly, and then releases it to shove both hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “You’re distracted,” he returns lightly. “Rate you were going at, you might have pulled something.”

“I can keep going!”

“What’s the point? You don’t need this training, and if you’re just going to get hurt there’s no point in continuing today when you might learn it better tomorrow.” 

Ichigo directs his scowl at the ground instead, and Arago sighs. “C’mon, kid, you were late by almost twenty minutes, and now you’re slipping into mistakes you haven’t made since we started. What’s up?”

“…Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Arago crouches down to Ichigo’s level, trying to catch his eye, biting back a smile. It’s only been six months since he first started staying in Karakura, and in those six months he’s learned more about dealing with kids than he ever thought he’d learn. Like this, for instance. “Well, then. If its nothing, I suppose we can stop training for today and…”

“I said it was nothing!”

“I know. But that doesn’t change the fact you’re going to hurt yourself at this rate, and well, if there’s nothing to fix and no way to help it…” He trails off meaningfully.

Right on cue, Ichigo’s head snaps up, eyes wide, before he remembers he’s still trying to pass it off as unimportant and his gaze goes right back down to the pavement. Arago waits.

“…Why’re you teaching me?”

Arago tilts his head, considering. Not the question he expected, and not quite what the kid actually wants to say, but Arago can play along. “‘Cause you asked, kiddo.”

“Ichi- _ go _ .”

“Because you asked, Ichi- _ go _ .”

Ichigo rolls his eyes, but relents on the name issue. He bites his lip. “So—so if someone else wanted you to teach them—”

Arago considers this. “I might,” he admits freely. No use in lying to the kid. “But honestly, it depends on a lot of things, y’know?” Like who, what, why, their primary motivation… “You don’t have to worry,” he adds, in an effort to be somewhat more comforting.

Ichigo doesn’t look comforted.  This is why Arago doesn’t have kids, this right here. He is terrible at this.

“Kid—Ichigo—look.” Arago stops, runs a hand through his hair, and sighs. “I know you want to learn how to fight. I mean, training with me  _ and  _ karate classes? It’s pretty obvious. And I know why, too—that’s why I agreed. Because you… you remind me of how I was, and fighting… it got me into a lot of trouble, but it also got me out of something a whole lot worse. It made me believe in myself again, and it let me help people that… that I couldn’t have helped otherwise.” 

_ Keep it vague, Arago, keep it vague. _

“I know you want the same. But… for that same reason, if anyone else wanted me to teach them? If they had a good reason for it, too? Of course I’d teach them. Because— because it’s good to know, and sometimes people want to protect rather than be protected, and who am I to take that chance away?”

Ichigo’s eyes drop to the pavement. “…Right,” he says.

Arago considers him, then sighs. “All right,” he announces, loudly and with all the drama he can muster, yawning into one hand and stretching out his back as he heads for the sidewalk, where he’d set out bottles of water and his pack while he trained with the kid on the grass. Arago practically falls onto the edge, leaning back and closing his eyes to the sun, soaking in the warmth and sipping at his water bottle. He says nothing, no reasoning, no explanation or excuse, and after a little while the kid hesitantly follows, settling gingerly beside Arago and fiddling with the wrapper of his own water bottle, looking uncertain.

Arago settles his bottle on his knee. “Kid,” he says, and Ichigo’s head snaps up, mouth opening in a retort, but before he can Arago says, “Why’d you ask?”

Ichigo’s mouth snaps shut so quickly his teeth clack together. His eyes drop to the road. “No reason.”

“Kid.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Arago’s mouth twists, and after another moment he sighs and pinches his nose between his fingers. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.” He stands and brushes the dirt off his clothes, Ichigo watching him with an expression carefully wiped clean. “Lesson’s over for today, kiddo. See you in two days; remember to practice your stances, yeah?”

Ichigo’s whole face flushes red and he abruptly jumps to his feet. “What! Already? But—”

“It’s not punishment for keeping quiet!” Arago blurts hastily. “Damn, kid, you’re allowed your secrets. Just…you’re dealing with some stuff, yeah? So go, deal with it. When whatever hurdle is over, we can train again. But right now, you’re distracted, and that can get you hurt. So just… focus on your basics, and on dealing with your life… okay?” He tries for a smile. “There’ll always be time for another lesson.”

Ichigo goes quiet, his face contemplative. “You promise?”

“Yeah,” Arago says, hoping he isn’t making another horrible mistake. “I promise.”

Ichigo nods and darts away without another word. Arago watches him go, frowning slightly, one hand rubbing at his white hair. 

He hopes whatever it is, it resolves itself soon. For Ichigo’s sake, if nothing else. The kid has had enough bad hands dealt to him for one lifetime; he doesn’t need more grief.

For now, Arago turns his sights back on the city. Two hours left until dinner. Two hours left to search.

Who knows? Maybe he’ll get lucky.

-

Ichigo almost thinks that this will be the end of it, that he’ll walk into the dojo and it’ll be practice as usual. Tatsuki doesn’t usually tend to push him on things, and it's been a whole day already, so she might’ve already forgotten. It’s not like he said anything all that important.

But the moment Ichigo walks through the door, Tatsuki is suddenly there, her gear laying haphazardly on the side and her eyes sharp as she leans into Ichigo’s personal space. 

“Ichigo,” she says, too cold to be her usual greeting and very, very intent. “I wanna meet your teacher.”

Ichigo stares at her, bag slipping through his fingers to clatter on the floor. For a moment he stays suspended in perfect, confused silence, up until Tatsuki’s words catch up to him and he yelps out, “What? No!”

Tatsuki is not deterred, raising both hands and placing them firmly on his shoulders to hold him in place before he can bolt. Sometimes Ichigo wishes they weren’t friends, because there’s no way she’d know his habits this well if they weren’t. 

“Ichigo,” Tatsuki says, calm in a dangerous way. “I’m gonna meet your teacher.”

“Why are you still on about that?” Ichigo says, and he’s  _ not  _ whining, no matter how much it might sound like it. He regrets ever telling her. This is what he gets for bragging; Arago is always on about humility and modesty and how keeping his mouth shut is sometimes a better option—“Personal experience,” he likes to say—and for the first time Ichigo can see some merit in that, if that one little secret has led to  _ this _ .

Well, whatever  _ this  _ is. Accosting? 

“You always run off after practice, nowadays,” says Tatsuki, like Ichigo hasn’t spoken. “You’re meeting with that teacher of yours, right? I’m coming with you.”

Ichigo briefly stops struggling and gapes at her. “How did you know that?” he demands. A thought strikes. “Are you stalking me?”

“What? No!” says Tatsuki, and even smacks him around the head for it, which means she means it. “Ugh, Ichigo, you always used to leave class before I did, c’mon, even before—”

She falls silent suddenly, her hands stilling. Ichigo is suddenly aware of how stiff he is, shoulders drawn up by his ears and throat tight like someone’s got him in a stranglehold. He can’t breathe right. His eyes feel strangely hot.

Tatsuki’s hands fall limp and weak from his shoulders, her earlier fire gone cold. “Sorry,” she offers, her voice a near whisper. 

Ichigo says nothing.

After another moment Tatsuki draws in a deep breath and says, “Ichigo, I want—”

“You’re not meeting him,” Ichigo says. His voice sounds distant to his own ears, fuzzy and far-away and colder than he thought he was capable of, hard like stone. He didn’t know he could sound like that. “You’re not meeting him and I’m not introducing you and stop— Stop asking!”

Tatsuki looks stricken, and Ichigo suddenly feels like he’s been struck too. He didn’t mean to say it like that; so cold and distant and angry. He just meant— He just— But she said—

Ichigo turns on his heel and walks away. He doesn’t want to see the look on Tatsuki’s face. He doesn’t want to hear what she has to say. He just wants the karate lesson to be over, suddenly, wants to fight with Arago until the rhythm of the spar chases all the bad memories away.

And Ichigo thinks, if only to himself:  _ Well, why can’t I? _

It should terrify him to skip class, he thinks. The only other time he’s ever skipped was— _ that  _ day, and the week following, never since then. But it is oddly easy to pick up back his bag and march his way out the doors, onto the streets and heading to the park. No one stops him. No one even sees him go, except Tatsuki, and she’d never skip class to come after Ichigo—she’s going to be the best, after all, and the best never skips a lesson.

He’s alone and he’s free, and as he walks his anger thins and wavers without an outlet, before finally dying away. Free, free, free. It’s a relief.

Ichigo heads towards the park. Even if Arago isn’t there yet, Ichigo can wait for his mentor to arrive under the trees. 

He hasn’t worked through all his problems—in fact, he thinks they're piling up—but he thinks that maybe, just this once, Arago will let him off easy.

-

Miles away, unaware of Ichigo’s truancy, Arago is wandering the Karakura downtown.

While the shops are rather nice, and he’s spied one or two awesome jackets he wouldn’t mind buying for himself, Arago’s aim in this venture is not shopping. Rather, he is doing what he’s done almost every day since he first decided to stay in Karakura— search for the supernatural.

Beyond a few glimpses of black cloth, and random instances of unexplainable murder and property destruction, he hasn’t found much. It’s infuriating, because Arago is certain it exists—but it’s doing a damn good job of hiding. He’s scoured the city for weeks, but finding even a hint of its existence is a miracle. 

Arago has little hope of today being any different, but he still pulls on his jacket and goes out regardless. Any chance, no matter how small, will get him closer to his goal. He can’t risk missing a clue. It’s a matter of life and death, even if it’s not his life on the line.

_ Heh, unintentional pun. _

Still, jokes aside, it is with a grim slant to his mouth that Arago trudges into the city once more. The weather is becoming chilly as the month turns to September, summer afternoons clashing with the colder autumn nights soon approaching. It’s a beautiful day, all blue sky and not a cloud in sight, but Arago still feels gloomy. With Ichigo’s uncharacteristic moodiness and Arago’s own lack of findings, what originally looked to be an easy job is quickly becoming more trouble than it might be worth.

Times like this he wishes Rio was with him. His best friend always manages to cheer him up, even just by being there. All of his friends do, now that he thinks about it. Rio, Oz, Coco… they would be so much better at all of this. Coco would be able to help Ichigo smile. Rio could push people to confront their problems head-on in a heartbeat. Oz would… Oz would have some crazy gadget or device or power, something weird and unexpected that’d find the one perfect solution in the whole mess. Arago misses them so badly it’s almost a physical ache. It’d be so nice to not have to do this alone.

Alas, all of his friends are checking out other sites of power. Plus, they have their own lives to live. Arago… Arago has no end to his time. His life is eternal.

Glum from the turn his thoughts have taken, Arago wanders back to his usual spots, where supernatural activity occurs most often. The alleyway that stays cool even in hundred degree weather, the cracked and broken road, the neighborhood haunted warehouse known for its unusual string of deaths.

To his frustration, none of these haunts show any unusual activity. The city is still and silent, and he  _ hates  _ it. It's been so long some part of him is wondering if that glimpse of power was just a fluke. Maybe the power he seeks isn’t in Karakura after all.

He’s been having thoughts along this line for weeks now, and no matter how hard he tries, Arago can’t completely shake them. What if he  _ was _ wrong? What if he misread what he felt?

What if he’s just wasting his time here?

It’s an awful thought, and Arago feels horrible for thinking it, but it's true. Ichigo, for all that he’s a funny kid, and teaching him is pretty great, isn’t reliant on Arago. He doesn’t  _ need  _ Arago. Seth, even Ewan… they do. If Arago stops here… they’ll never have a future again. 

He’ll feel awful about leaving the kid behind, but Ichigo doesn’t need Arago, no matter what the kid thinks. Arago’s presence isn’t life or death for him. And as painful as it sounds…and as awful as it makes Arago feel… he can leave Ichigo behind. Because no matter what Arago does, whether he stays or goes, Ichigo will have a future regardless.

If Arago really is wasting his time here… if the key to saving Seth can’t be found in Karakura…

Frustrated,  Arago kicks at a can, sending the empty metal tin skidding down the street, bounding off poles and tinging on the raised sidewalk slabs. Arago glowers at the thing, then rubs a hand down his face and sighs heavily, annoyed with himself.

It happens just as Arago is jogging over to the can to pick it up and throw it away. He’s crouching down to pick it up when a wave of…  _ something _ washes over him, icy cold in a way that has nothing to do with temperature. A weight presses down on Arago’s shoulders, the air suddenly thick and heavy and hard to breathe.

_ What…? _

All the building windows break at once.

The soda can clatters from Arago’s hand. He watches numbly as the windows break and rain down on the otherwise unpopulated street, as the air ripples like a heat wave before him. As empty space cracks the street and sends car alarms wailing into the blue sky.

_ There’s nothing there! _

To his eyes, at least. But just because Arago can’t see it doesn’t mean something isn’t there. And just because it's invisible to  _ him… _ doesn’t mean he’s invisible to  _ it. _

_ I’ve gotta get out of here. _

His first instinct is to run to the park—less people than the streets, and hopefully not too crowded—but at the last second he remembers Ichigo and other school kids who like to play there and turns swiftly in the opposite direction.

He doesn’t get the chance. As he begins to run, the ground trembles and cracks beneath his feet, sending him flying into the sky and crashing air onto the cracked and broken earth. Gasping for air, pressing one hand against his chest to hide his healing wounds, Arago struggles to get up. The air bears down on him like a physical weight, stone pressing into his back and shoulders, like the hand of God himself is trying to push Arago deep into the earth.

Arago fights to remain stationary, too dazed to push back against the hand, but too strong to be beaten down. For a moment he and the presence stay there, locked in place, until all of sudden the pressure vanishes.

Gasping in shock at the sudden release, Arago goes flying up to his feet, scrambling to find a hold on the broken pieces of the road. His eyes scour the sky desperately for any sign of his attacker, but nothing appears. Only blue skies and broken windows… and a distant screech, as if heard through a long tunnel, monstrous and inhumane and like nothing Arago’s ever heard before.

Stunned, too startled to move, Arago stares up at the sky. For a moment he can almost— _ almost _ —see it, a great towering creature and a small humanoid form dressed all in black. Then he blinks, and when he looks again, sees nothing but the sky, and a small butterfly drifting in the wind.

No matter where he looks, no matter where he turns, nothing comes to his attention. The monster—and the other, the monster-slayer?—are gone, vanished as if they had never existed, leaving nothing but broken windows and road in their wake.

“Dammit,” Arago snarls, and turns to run. He has no idea how this new power deals with those who see it, but he has a funny feeling he won’t like it. He can’t get caught, if that’s the case.

All those years traveling the land of the Fair Folk has given him an advantage, at least; nowhere else could Arago have learned to run as quietly as he does, nor as quickly. He reaches Main Street with no time to spare, slipping into the crowd like a ghost, hiding in the shadow of a million other souls. 

Tense, he waits with bated breath to see if the… whatever it was will find him anyway. But apparently Arago is just that fast, and just that good at hiding, because nothing happens. After a half-hour of nothing but waiting, Arago finally dares to slip free of the busy street, convinced of his security.

It’s just in time, too, he realizes, checking his wrist-watch. His lesson with Ichigo isn’t for another thirty minutes, but he’ll have to head over soon.

Adrenaline finally fading from his system, Arago shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and muses over the encounter. Despite the attack, he can’t help but feel absolutely giddy. It’s what he’s been waiting for. It's  _ exactly  _ what he’s been waiting for.

_ There  _ is _ something here. _

And better—or worse, considering on one’s point of view—he knows why he’s had such trouble tracking them down.

_ Different kind of magic. I can’t see them. _

Sensing magic only goes so far, after all. Just because Arago is sensitive doesn’t mean all magic is the same, or even runs on the same wavelength. The power of the dead, especially… Arago should have guessed they wouldn’t be so easily discovered.

Beyond just a confirmation of his suspicions, the encounter has revealed something else to Arago—that if he wants to achieve his goal, if he wants to claim their power… then he has to adapt. He has to learn. This is uncharted territory.

He can’t find anything if he doesn’t learn how to look. This is a different kind of magic than the Fair Folk. He can sense it, but he hasn’t yet learned how to see. 

But he can. And he will.

As he walks down the river towards the park, Arago grins. 

_ Now, the hunt begins. _

-

There’s a girl hiding in the trees. 

She’s been there for awhile now—almost the whole lesson, come to think—and normally Arago wouldn’t bother noticing, since this a public park and all, but…

She’s been watching them. Very pointedly, in fact, her regard so intent that it sends a shiver down his spine, his instincts blaring a warning from all sides. She’s totally human—Arago’s already checked—but years of walking the world of the Fair Folk, and dealing with supernatural creatures, has given Arago some damn good instincts. He couldn’t ignore her even if he wanted too. She practically  _ oozes  _ intent.

As he lightly bats Ichigo’s fist away, Arago muses on the issue. On one hand, she hasn’t done much: just watched, and that's no crime, even if she’s radiating fury like a miniature heater. On the other…

Well, it is a bit creepy.

Ichigo throws up a kick—perfect form and good power behind the move,  _ nice,  _ the kid is definitely learning—and Arago hooks his arm under the raised leg and flips him head over heels. Ichigo falters and then tries to recover, drawing on the flips Arago taught him earlier in the week and dancing out of reach. His landing is a bit shaky, but overall he pulls it off near flawlessly. Arago beams, proud.

“Nice,” he says, before Ichigo can throw himself back into the fight. The kid’s near breathless, wheezing hard, and Arago’s learned the hard way that if he doesn’t cut the kid off early, Ichigo will work himself into a faint. “Looking good, kid. Take a breather, yeah? Almost done for today.”

Ichigo looks painfully disappointed. “Already?”

His disappointment isn’t exactly misplaced—they usually tend to practice for longer—but today Ichigo’s been fighting ten times as hard, still clearly frustrated from whatever bothered him last time. Arago’s a bit worried that if he keeps going, the kid will either collapse or cry, and he doesn’t know what to do for either. Coco says kids need breaks; Coco would know and thus should always be referred to.

“Yeah,” Arago says, and then, “I got some work today.” He doesn’t, but he’d rather not have Ichigo think it’s his fault. The kid puts blame on himself for the strangest things. It makes Arago feel strangely sad.

Ichigo’s shoulders drop. “Okay,” he says, near glum. Then he brightens. “Can I come back tomorrow?”

They usually only have a lesson about three times a week, but just this once, Arago will make an exception. He  _ has  _ cut the lesson short, after all.

“Sure, kiddo.”

“Yes!” A pause, and then— “And it's  _ Ichigo. _ ”

Arago beams. “Okay, kiddo.”

Ichigo rolls his eyes and sighs, but when he waves goodbye, it's with a smile on his face. Victory.

Arago waits until Ichigo is out of sight, and then he tilts back his head and says, “So, you gonna come out from behind those trees and say something, or…?”

There’s a long pause, and then the girl walks out stiffly from her hiding place. She’s young, Ichigo’s age or older, with short and spiky brown hair and narrow eyes, chin jutting forward and tiny shoulders set back, all defiance and strength. She’s dressed in a karate uniform, standing tall and barefoot on the wet grass. She must be in Ichigo’s class; strange, considering this lesson started while the class in question was still in session due to both Arago and Ichigo arriving early. Did she skip the lesson to watch them?

Hmm.

Arago doesn’t say anything, just watches her march forward like a man on a mission. There’s no give in her small face, no fear or hesitation, even though he’s an adult and so much taller besides, practically towering over her. Something in the fierce set of her face niggles at him, sets his inner alarm bells ringing, and Arago watches her, feeling oddly nostalgic for a reason he can’t quite name.

For nearly a minute, they simply stand there, staring at each other. If this had been Ichigo, the silence would have broken long ago—most kids can't stand silence, and Ichigo is no exception. This girl doesn’t though—just stands still and careful with every fiber of her being shaking from the force of holding back. She wants so badly to speak, but not a word passes through her clenched jaw. She’s waiting for him to make the first move, to give up the advantage. Arago is bizarrely impressed.

He shifts his stance, shoulders loosening, admits defeat first because he has the feeling that she never will. The nostalgia is hitting him full force. 

“Yes?” he says, as if she has asked a question. “What’s up?”

His casual tone of voice only serves to infuriate her—her shoulders rising up, teeth bared and clenched tight. “You!” she says, practically shaking. “Who are you?”

Arago watches her. He doesn’t think she’ll actually attack him, but she’s making a passable attempt at intimidation, for all that she’s about 3 feet tall and has the same adorable cherubic face all kids have. She’ll be a right terror once she grows up, he can already tell.

“Arago,” he says cheerfully, still looking her up and down. The recognition gets stronger with every passing second. She reminds him of something, that's for sure, and it’s weirdly bemusing. “Arago Hunt. Nice to meet you.”

She sticks out her chin and glares at him. “You’re teaching Ichigo.”

No name given in return, just attitude. Arago fights the urge to smile; if he does, he has no doubt she’ll try and hit him. “Yep. You know him?” he asks, as if he had not already deduced as much.

“Doesn’t matter,” says the girl, with an admirable amount of flippancy. “What do you want with him?”

For the first time, Arago feels a bit caught off-guard. “Um… what?”

This is clearly not the right answer to give, as the girl looks furious. “What do you want with him?” she demands, marching up into Arago’s personal space. “Why are you teaching him? Why does he trust you so much? What are you doing?!”

Arago leans away from her fury, and something clicks. “You’re afraid I’m going to hurt him,” he realizes. “You’re his friend.”

The girl bristles up like a porcupine. “That’s right,” she replies hotly. “I’m his friend. I dunno what you did to make Ichigo like you so much, but you don’t get to hurt him! He’s  _ my _ friend, and I’m the only one allowed to push him around, ‘cause I don’t really mean it. ‘Cause I’m his friend. But  _ you’re _ not.”

She leans closer and jabs a finger at his face, spitting fire. “I dunno what you want with Ichigo, but if you hurt him, I’m going to beat you up!”

It should be bewildering, insulting, ridiculous— this tiny slip of a girl threatening a man three times her size and immortal to boot. It would be, to anyone else. But Arago, Arago just looks down at her, feeling strangely disconnected, and says, “I understand.”

And he does, weirdly enough. With those words, he can finally place what's so damn familiar about her. She reminds him of Rio. She reminds Arago of himself. All fury and protected fire.

Rio once told him the reason she’d become an officer was so she’d never feel helpless again. So that next time something happened, she could help him. And Arago can understand that, he really can—because sometimes seeing people you love be in pain is almost as terrible as feeling that pain yourself. The helplessness never really goes away.

Arago had forced himself to become stronger. Rio had too. But this girl, for Ichigo, she has become something else. The guardian of the protector. A shield. She cannot touch him in his pain, and so she protects him, instead, be it from bullies or strange adults who might take advantage of a child’s grief.

This time he doesn’t stop his smile. “I understand,” he repeats again, and then settles down into a cross-legged position on the grass, to put them at eye level without looking down at her. 

The girl looks caught off-guard by his easy acceptance, pulling back just slightly, confusion crossing her young face. And she is, Arago realizes, young. Ichigo is probably one of the first friends she ever made, and this is perhaps the first time she has ever had to see someone she loves in pain.

He can understand that, too. That helplessness. That need to protect, to shield from harm, to  _ help _ in any way possible.

Two  months ago he looked at a boy crying by the riverbed and saw himself. Now he looks down at a girl and sees yet another reflection—Rio, and Arago, and even Coco in that blinding need to protect in her eyes. Of course she and Ichigo are friends, he realizes suddenly. They are the same.

So he says, again, “What do you want?” and when she stiffens in surprise, still looking uncertain, he presses on. “What did you come here to do?”

She watches him, wary. “Watch you,” she says finally, defiantly. 

“You came to protect Ichigo,” Arago corrects, certain he is right, and the girl’s small fists fall by her side, her confusion evident.

“What…?”

Arago smiles at her. “What’s your name?”

She eyes him, but something has loosened the tension in her shoulders, opened her fists and lightened her eyes. “Tatsuki,” she says.

“Tatsuki,” Arago repeats, his earlier conversation with Ichigo playing in his head—and he smiles. “You know I’m teaching Ichigo how to fight, yeah? Would you like to be my student too?”

She gapes at him. “Would I—  _ what?” _

He grins back. 

“No!”

“Why not?”

“‘Cause your creepy!”

“I am?” Arago asks, bewildered, and then blinks. “Oh shit, you’re right. Um. Sorry. I promise I mean you no harm?”

She points angrily at him. “I’m not convinced!”

“Okay.”

“I said I’m not convinced.”

“I mean, that’s reasonable.”

“So I’m gonna become your student—to watch you! And the moment you do something weird and mean, I’m calling the cops! And kicking your ass!”

“Okay,” Arago says, before the words register. Now it's his turn to gape. “Wait. What?”

“I’m not repeating it!” she snaps at him, and then turns and marches away. “I’ll be back Tuesday and Thursdays and the Fridays that you teach Ichigo. I got my eye on you.”

How the hell she knows what days he teaches Ichigo is beyond him, but Arago doesn’t protest her bold declaration. He watches her walk out of sight, carding his hands through his hair and feeling a bit like someone just yanked a rug out from under his feet.

_ That’s one way to lose control of a conversation, I guess. _

It's funny, in a way. He should feel offended, maybe, or a bit blindsided, but mostly all he wants to do is laugh. 

“Rio,” he says to the empty air, “she’s a mini-me! A mini-you! A mini… Coco? No, wait…”

He feels delighted, giddy from the day’s events. He’s found the power he’s been looking for, Ichigo apparently has a hilarious friend, and Arago thinks he might have just gained another student. Which is good, honestly, because Ichigo is not the kind of person who fights well alone, Arago thinks. It’ll do him good to have a partner who can match him, fight with him side by side. Someone to rely on for strength.

…Someone who isn’t Arago.

_ Today, _ Arago thinks,  _ has been good. _

He hasn’t found all the answers, not yet—but for now, this is enough.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At first I didn't intend to include Tatsuki, but then I remembered that she and Ichigo were childhood friends, and she used to beat up bullies for him.... and then I realized Arago would be 100% charmed and amused by her attitude, and voila! Tatsuki is now a major character. I know very little about her, help me. 
> 
> [ Link to Rec and Reblog? ](http://izaswritings.tumblr.com/post/173930001812/title-down-by-the-riverbed-fandom-bleach-arago) Also, if you have any questions or just want to talk, [ my tumblr ](http://izaswritings.tumblr.com) is always open!
> 
> Any thoughts?

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt from my good friend Yarra-- who continues to wow me with kickass crossover ideas. There will be four parts to this story, in order to try and cover all of the original prompt. Stay tuned, and let me know what you thought!
> 
> To Yarra: Thanks for your endless patience, my friend. I hope this story lives up to expectations!!


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